Night's Child

by Maureen Jennings

  As soon as the door closed behind the constable, Brackenreid went over to the fireplace. He took the poker and banged at a recalcitrant lump of coal until flames burst out of it. Murdoch waited, watching while Brackenreid turned to warm his plump buttocks.

  “What I am going to show you, Murdoch, must be viewed in complete confidence. Do I have your word?”

  Obscene and insolent questions jumped into Murdoch’s head, but he replied with sufficient politeness not to give offence.

  “Is the matter related to our professional relationship, sir?”

  “What?”

  “I mean is it pertinent to you as my inspector?”

  Brackenreid flushed. “Of course it is, what are you implying?”

  He had an all too familiar expression of bewilderment on his face that tended to take the fun out of baiting him. Murdoch sighed.

  “I’m implying nothing, sir. Just clarifying matters.”

  “You’re going to step over the line one of these days, Murdoch.”

  “And what line would that be, sir?”

  But he knew he’d come a little too close this time. Brackenreid could fine him for insubordination with no chance of redress if he so desired.

  “I beg your pardon, sir. I was distracting you from your purpose. You wanted to show me something. In complete confidence.”

  Brackenreid scowled at him, but he went over to his desk, pulled open a drawer, and took out two folded sheets of paper. He handed them to Murdoch.

  “Have a gander at these. Give me your opinion. I’m damned if I’ll have one of my officers maligned.”

  Murdoch was astonished. The inspector so often acted like a half-drunken sot that he’d long ago lost any respect for him. However, on occasion, he glimpsed the kind of man Brackenreid had been before his habit conquered him. This was such an occasion.

  “The top one came first.”

  Murdoch removed the sheet of paper from the envelope. The message was typewritten, unsigned.

  January 20 ’96 Inspector Brackenreid. I feel it is my duty as a citizen of this fair city to draw your attention to the reprehensible actions of one of your officers. I refer to Sergeant Seymour whose behaviour unbeknownst to you is both wicked and illicit. I suggest you ask him how he spends his leisure time.

  Murdoch glanced up at the inspector, who nodded. “Read the next one.”

  Monday, January 27 ’96. Inspector. I have previously warned you concerning the illegal activity of one of your officers. No action seems to have been taken. I will give you one more week. Unless the miscreant is punished I will alert the newspapers and will lay the case before the Chief Constable himself. This will bring shame on the station and the force itself.

  “What do you make of them?” Brackenreid asked.

  Murdoch hesitated. “What on earth are they referring to?”

  “How do I know? Could be anything from buying beer on Sundays to stopping his beak at the whorehouse. Depends on what you consider to be wicked and illicit activities.”

  “Have you spoken to the sergeant himself, sir?”

  “No. Frankly, I dismissed the first letter as pure mischief-making, but the second one is more serious.”

  “I think you should ask him directly, sir. Give him a chance to defend himself.”

  “Against what, Murdoch? What he does when he’s off-duty isn’t my concern. I’m not a priest who wants to hear every sin he’s ever committed. Did you have naughty thoughts today, sergeant? Did you forget to say your rosemary.”

  “The term is ‘rosary,’ sir.”

  Murdoch knew he should have let it go. Brackenreid smirked and waved his hand dismissively.

  “Whatever it is.”

  “The writer does say ‘illegal’ in the second letter. That suggests he is accusing Seymour of more than just a sin, which as you are implying, sir, can be relatively unimportant in the wider view of things.”

  “I’ve noted that, Murdoch. That is why I am discussing the matter with you. What is your impression of Seymour? I understand that of all the officers in this station, he is most friendly with you.”

  Murdoch wondered who had told him that. “To my knowledge, the sergeant is an officer of the highest calibre. He is decent and hard-working.”

  “Anybody he don’t get along with who might want to make mischief?”

  “Not that I know of. He keeps to himself, but I believe he is well-respected by the men.”

  “Damned peculiar business.” Brackenreid tapped on the desk. “Anything else you can say about the letters themselves?”

  “They’re surprising. The fact that they’re typewritten, for one thing. And the language is superior even if the intent isn’t. ‘Miscreant’ isn’t exactly a common word. Did they come with the regular post?”

  “Yes. The second one was in the post this morning. As you see, the envelope is also typewritten and is addressed to me.” He frowned. “The writer is out to make mischief, knows the sergeant by name, and has used it. The problem is that even if Seymour is pure as the driven snow, if the writer does send this to the papers, a lot of mud will be flung and some of it will stick.”

  “Unless the accusations prove to be laughably trivial.”

  “Somehow I doubt that, Murdoch. There’s a tone to the letters. I believe the writer means business. As you say, the words are ‘illegal’ and ‘illicit.’” Brackenreid walked over to the window and looked out. “Snow’s starting up again. I’ll be happy when we’re done with this weather.” He picked up a framed miniature from the mantelpiece. Murdoch knew the painting was of Brackenreid’s wife. According to the station gossip, Mrs. Brackenreid was consumed by unrelenting ambition to achieve a high social standing among the Toronto gentry and to that end she led her husband a merry dance. Brackenreid’s expression was perplexed, and Murdoch wondered if he were trying to understand what he had once found appealing about the woman he’d married. On the other hand, he could have just been trying to decide if it was a good likeness and worth the money.

  “Besides, it is not likely he will admit it.”

  “Beg pardon, sir.”

  “Seymour. He’s not likely to come right out and admit he’s been dipping his wick in the mud pond, is he?”

  “I can’t say, sir.”

  “Of course, he won’t. He knows he’ll be dismissed. He has a position of superiority here. He must be an example.”

  With a sigh, Brackenreid returned the picture to its place on the mantelpiece. He turned around.

  “The sergeant is on duty today. I’ll have to speak to him. I’d appreciate it if you would stay, Murdoch, and give me your honest opinion.”

  Murdoch didn’t relish the task. He liked Seymour, and over the years they had formed a friendship, sharing a passion for fast wheels. Last summer they had gone on a couple of bicycling trips with the Toronto Bicycling Club, to which Seymour belonged. Was he the kind of man who had a secret life that could get him into trouble? Murdoch thought it not likely, but to be honest, he didn’t know much about the man. He believed he’d been married at one time but couldn’t recall when he’d heard that. Now, like Murdoch, he lived in a boarding house.

  Brackenreid pulled the bell rope twice and returned to his desk.

  “Have you considered the possibility that the letter has been written by somebody in this station, sir?”

  Brackenreid scowled at him.

  “I’m not an imbecile. Of course I thought of it. That’s why I wanted to discuss the matter with you. Any of the men prone to whinging? Any of them a bit too straight-laced for their own good?”

  “I’d have to think about that, sir.”

  The station had thirty-four constables at all four levels and Murdoch only had a nodding acquaintance with most of them. More familiarity was dependent on who worked on his cases.

  “It’s the threat of going to the newspapers that I detest,” said Brackenreid. “Surely there’s enough loyalty among the men that if the sergeant is misbehaving, they would come straight to me a
nd report him, not go through all this cloak-and-dagger nonsense.”

  “If it is one of our own men writing the letter, I wonder how he knows what Seymour’s private proclivities are.”

  Although the constables might associate with each other when they were off duty, the sergeants would never break rank.

  Murdoch decided to float a tantalizing fly on the surface of the pond to see if the old pickerel would take the bait.

  Shortly before the end of the year, a new constable, third class, had joined the station. The incident had caused quite a stir because he was replacing Philips, a well-liked young fellow who had been abruptly dismissed. The charge was poor work habits, based apparently on the fact that he had not come into work for three days in a row when he was suffering from influenza. Because Philips had not produced a note from a physician, Brackenreid said he was malingering. According to the unfortunate constable, he was too ill even to consult a physician and couldn’t afford to have one come to his house. The inspector was adamant and the lad was cast out. The next day he was replaced by Liam Callahan, an Irishman, who appeared to have stepped straight off the boat and into the job. Rumour immediately ran riot that he was related to the inspector, although Callahan denied it.

  “You mentioned loyalty, sir, and that is a good point. All of the officers have been here for two years or more. Except for Constable Callahan, that is.”

  Brackenreid wrinkled his nose at Murdoch as if he committed the impropriety of publicly breaking wind.

  “He’s a very good lad. Let’s not make wild accusations.”

  “I wasn’t making any accusation, sir, wild or otherwise. I merely pointed out that Constable Callahan is very new here. The issue pertained to loyalty.”

  “Yes, well…”

  There was a tap at the door.

  “Enter,” Brackenreid called and Seymour came into the room. In some surprise, he glanced at Murdoch, who nodded reassuringly at him. Brackenreid cleared his throat.

  “Sergeant, I’ve got some, er, unfortunate news to impart to you. I’ve asked Detective Murdoch to be present because the matter relates to the welfare of the station.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Take a look at these two letters. They are dated.”

  He handed them to Seymour. Murdoch watched him, feeling like a traitor even to do that.

  The sergeant went very still and it seemed to Murdoch that his hand trembled a little. Not that that was necessarily a proof of guilt.

  Brackenreid scowled. “Is the accusation true, Seymour? Have you been committing some illegal act?”

  “What might that be, sir?”

  “I don’t know, sergeant. Anything. Gambling, dancing with whores, stealing apples. You know what the word means.”

  The sergeant’s mouth was tight with anger. “If I am being accused of misdoing, I would like to know who so accuses me and of what charge.”

  “So would we, sergeant, so would we. Why d’you think somebody would go to the trouble of writing such letters?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  Brackenreid rested his head on his hands for a moment. “You can see, I’m in a deuced awkward spot, Seymour. If the writer is as good as his word, he will send this to the newspapers and there will be the devil of an uproar.”

  “I realize that, sir. But the alternative seems to be to dismiss me. Unless you are in fact asking that I resign. To avoid unpleasantness.”

  Murdoch jumped in. “May I make a suggestion, sir? The writer has given us a week’s grace. We might be able to track him down. If we know who he is, we can determine with absolute certainty what the accusations against Sergeant Seymour are and at least he will have a chance to defend himself.”

  Seymour looked over at Murdoch. His expression was bleak. He was a man who expected that the sentence had already been made.

  Brackenreid fiddled with his moustache, which badly needed trimming.

  “Certainly that would be a good move, but there are two hundred thousand citizens in this city of ours. Any one of them could have sent this letter.”

  Murdoch didn’t challenge the inspector on the exaggeration. “May I have your permission to investigate, sir.”

  “Yes, you may. See what you can find.” Brackenreid drummed his fingers on the desk. He avoided Seymour’s eyes. “In the meantime, until we get to the bottom of the matter, I am going to ask you to remain at home, sergeant. If the unknown letter writer is as cognizant with the workings of the station as he appears, it may mollify him for a while.”

  Seymour was also avoiding the inspector’s face. “Is that to be without pay, sir?”

  “No, no. A week with pay. If, er, if you are, er, if the charges are true, you will have to repay those wages. How does that sound?”

  “I can understand the necessity. But I do have a favour to beg of you, sir.”

  Brackenreid nodded.

  “Can we put out that I have come down with the influenza? As you say, mud sticks and I don’t want gossip going around that I have been up to no good. I may never be able to completely clear my name.”

  The inspector hesitated, then said, “Yes, we can do that. We’ll call it an informal inquiry. Why don’t you get your things now? Say you are unwell. You can send for Gardiner to replace you. He and Hales should be able to manage for a few days. Murdoch can get on with his investigation.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  He gave Brackenreid a stiff, formal bow and left. He hadn’t once looked at Murdoch after he had made his offer.

  The inspector waited for a moment. “Well, Murdoch, what do you think? He seemed very shaken to me.”

  “Who wouldn’t be when faced with that?”

  “Yes, you’re right of course. Doesn’t necessarily mean the poor fellow has a guilty conscience, does it?”

  “No, sir. Not at all.”

  “All right then. Get on with it. See what you can find.”

  Murdoch stood up. In spite of what he’d said, he was ill at ease. Sergeant Seymour had indeed appeared shaken by the letters, but he’d not seemed surprised.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Murdoch returned to what he optimistically referred to as his office, a cubicle off the back hallway, next to the cells. He put the two letters on top of his desk. He didn’t relish this assignment. He considered the sergeant to be a dedicated police officer who did his work properly, was punctual, didn’t drink, appeared clean and groomed, and was fair to the constables under his command. Surely he wouldn’t be so foolish as to risk his job for some peccadillo. Murdoch grimaced, realizing what he was thinking. Seymour was right. No matter if you were clean as the fresh, fallen snow currently beautifying the city, mud stuck.

  There was a tap on the wall outside. Because the cubicle was too small for a door, Murdoch had hung a reed curtain at the threshold. Through the strips, he could see the outline of George Crabtree. The constable filled the entire space.

  “Come in.”

  Crabtree pushed aside the curtain sufficiently to show his head and shoulders.

  “There is a lady out in the front hall who wants to talk to you.”

  “Who is it?”

  “I don’t know, sir. She didn’t give her name. She said you wouldn’t know who she was anyway.”

  “Did she also refuse to say what she wanted?”

  “As a matter of fact she did, sir. A personal matter was all she’d say.”

  “George, I’ve seen that expression on your face before. What’s wrong with this one? Do I need you to protect me?”

  Crabtree looked sheepish. “Not that, sir. It’s just that…well, she’s dressed sort of peculiar. Not what you’d usually see. But well-spoken.”

  “I’m intrigued. I’ll come out.”

  He put the two letters in a folder and slipped it into his desk drawer.

  The public area of the station was a large room called the hall. Along one wall ran a wooden bench where the public could wait while their complaints or misdemeanours were dealt with. A big wood
stove in the centre poured out heat into the room. The sergeant on duty sat on a stool behind the high counter and behind him was the telephone and telegram table, manned at the moment by young Callahan. Both men were trying without much success not to stare at the woman who was standing in front of the counter. She was on the short side, slim, with fine features and blonde, wavy hair. However, her features were not the extraordinary thing about her. Her clothes were. She was wearing a loose-fitting, brown tweed jacket, belted at the waist and buttoned at the neck. The hem was at her knees and below it were visible brown pantaloons, also loose fitting, and fastened with narrow bands at the ankle. Her boots, simple brown felt hat, and the portmanteau she was carrying were unimpeachable.

  As soon as Murdoch appeared, she spoke up.

  “Good afternoon, you must be Detective Murdoch. I wonder if we could talk in private. It is a matter of some urgency.”

  “Of course. Please come this way.”

  She walked past him and he followed her along the corridor. Except for the strange garb, she was an attractive woman, still on the younger side of thirty, he guessed. And as Crabtree had said, she was well-spoken. She was also very upset about something.

  He lifted aside the reed curtain, indicated the spare chair, and took his place behind the desk. He wished yet again that his office wasn’t so shabby. The grey metal filing cabinet behind him could have come from a railway discard yard and the upholstery of the chair she was sitting on had split at the bottom. He’d never quite been able to scrub off the chalk marks on the wall where he’d periodically drawn street maps of the area around the station. The woman, however, showed no curiosity at all about her surroundings. She sat down on the chair, her back straight, her eyes fixed on his.

  “May I have the privilege of knowing to whom I am speaking?” he asked.

  She thrust out her hand in a somewhat masculine fashion. Her grip was firm. “My name is Amy Slade. I am a teacher at Sackville Street School.” She leaned forward slightly and he had the impression of somebody on a diving board, not completely sure if they wanted to plunge into the water. He nodded encouragingly and she relaxed a little.